Someone once told her that life was made of differences. Sitting on the windowsill, the chill of the night air biting uncomfortably into her, she decides that that's probably why she doesn't feel like living anymore. All the little differences that made up her life are gone, vanished, smothered.
That line between uncertainty and knowing is gone, when there's nothing worth knowing anymore and no one left to teach it.
Shades of color are blended and blurred and the difference between black and white is gone now too.
The difference between tears and laughter has no place in a heart that's too worn out to mourn or move on.
She's too far seperated from the girl she used to be to care, though. She stopped trying to fill the void where the differences used to be. Stopped trying to do anything, around the time when she came back and his four poster was empty and (he wasn't coming back to Hogwarts. For real.)
There's one difference missing, the only one who's absence matters, the one that makes the back of her eyes sting, (like maybe if she tried hard enough she could actually cry again).
It's the difference between Harry's alive or Harry's dead. It's a difference that vanished into a whirlpool of lies and rumors and worries (always the worries). It's a difference that's gone and the word it's been replaced with hangs in the air, like maybe if they poke enough it won't be true.
Missing.
.:.
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-Nina